


Pick of the Litter

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, War Pup Ceremony, When we first met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:24:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: There's a new litter of War Pups and its time for the ceremony before they are anointed in the holy chambers of the citadel to serve Immortan Joe. Slit has finally earned the right to participate in the ceremony, but keeps getting pushed back until all that's left for him is the runt.





	Pick of the Litter

**Author's Note:**

> Gundar the Caretaker is nonbinary, so they get "they" pronouns, obviously. Hope that translated well throughout.
> 
> Took some liberties on the ages between Nux and Slit because I can't actually remember if Nux is supposed to be older, but at least here, he ain't.

One by one, the War Pups come out of the Organic Mechanics tomb. One by one, they travel in a line as their first lesson in order, in purpose, in rank and file. They hold hands, link fingers. Second lesson of their newfound brotherhood. They learn to take each other’s hand, hold on tight, never let go. Link is a link is a link, but it’s the chain that binds them.

“What’d he say, eh?”

The split-faced War Boy jumps around, yipping at The Caretaker’s heels. So much like a War Pup still, so much to learn. Just cause he’s got a brand on his arm, just cause he’s of age, well, they had to bring him up for the ceremony. He had a fresh welty seal on his forearm from making War. It weren’t as bad as the scratchy bandages tied around his face, looping from the crown of his noggin down to his pointy chin. The Caretaker only slaps his hand away once, telling him not to scratch. Won’t matter anyways. Scars are gonna be shiny. He thinks he might dig ‘em a little more once he’s finished with his staples. Give himself the biggest smile. Might say he’s addicted to the blade if he weren’t so bent on being a driver, one day may he be, V8.

 “Fleas and ticks? Bumps and lumps?”

“You keep jumbling like that, I’ll make sure you get the runt, ’ey?” said the Caretaker.

This one, this War Boy called Gundar the Caretaker, they’re all scarred up too, all pretty with the whole anatomy of a person’s guts carved up and down their front and backside.  The Brothers of the Wheel even gave Gundar the Caretaker a lick of ink to show where the major arteries were. Organic Mechanic put the dye right in their skin, injector speed, flashy and hot.

Gundar the Caretaker was always there by the Organic Mechanic’s side, glued down when he needed a helping hand. Gundar lived and breathed Organic’s gospel as much as they did Immortan Joe’s. Not more so, no, not more so. That’s a fools talk. That’s traitor talk. Mediocre. Gundar the Caretaker praised, they praised so much, they praised, but still. Gundar the Caretaker seemed to toe the line between Organic and Immortan Joe. They shuffled by, leading the line of unpainted War Pups, little things, some of them still crying.

“No tears then,” said Gundar the Caretaker. “Know why yer here, ey? You’ve come to make war! You’ve come to be anointed, your first taste of the divine. Come up from the unwashed and you are made clean by the grace of Immortan Joe, by his hand, we praise, V8. So no tears. No need to shed your wasteful water.”

Gundar the Caretaker did a good speech, did a soft voice quite well, but there weren’t the warmth of brotherhood in their voice. Seemed they always just went through the motions ‘cause they had to, while Slit was bubbling with anticipation, practically begging for the ceremony to hop to it.

“Got a litter here!” the Caretaker shouted. Gundar’s voice carried like a song. Tapped every corner of the citadel walls, war drums for the War Boys. “Come and collect, my boys, come and get!”

They all came. War Boys spilled out of the cracks and crannies, sprang up in the common hall, jumping over each other. Slit was on Gundar’s heels like a tack. First pick, that’s what he thought. If he was there, first in line, he’d take him a War Pup right away. It’s all he dreamed of when he wasn’t dreaming of driving or making war. And while he was dreaming, Slit was soon crushed by bigger War Boys, War Boys with barrel chests or thick arms or that crow footed jack who stood at seven feet when he extended both his mechanic legs. It was like a regular hullabaloo, a real smash, and his fellow War Boys were all biting to get them a pup.

Some of the War Boys, whether they were detailing their rides, fixing up mechanics, red thumbs and black thumbs, gear heads, green seeders, the lancers, the drivers, they were the ones who turned towards the festivities with their own War Pups clung to their sides. Couldn’t step any which way without some pup scurrying under their feet. There were a few now on Slit’s sides, grabbing for his arms to get a better sight see, ride his shoulders like they would ride the war rig. All them War Boys with their War Pups were laughing and pointing at the new litter. One War Boy turned and playfully hit their partner’s shoulder. Some were bowed reverently, flashing V8 above their heads for the souls of their new family.

“Line up then,” said Gundar the Caretaker, Gundar the Cattle Prod. Weren’t as old as Ace, no, but they was up there. Senior War Boy. Never once called to the fury road, never once, but they knew their place, growing old and dusty in the citadel walls as they burned through the last of their half-life. A regular sight like Miss Giddy, leather bag lady of Immortan Joe. “Come on. I got twenty round here. Line up.”

There was a long ledge of rock come up from the far side of their main cathedral. Was a gathering place, a familiar place, full of dog piles and cooking fires, full of faces. The come spilling into the hall from left and right, up and down, any which way. The Caretaker led the War Pup line up to that ledge of rock so they could stand and look down at the War Boys who’d take them under their wing. Might be the only time they’d ever look down at a War Boy again.

They were all sorry things, dusty and dirty, heads freshly shaved and each of them pressing a tiny nib of cloth into the crook of their elbows where they’d each had their blood drawn. Half the War Pups was girls, embodied in the same sexless bodies as the boy War Pups. Didn’t matter to be born boy or girl or neither, if they were anointed, if they were chosen to ride up to the citadel and earn their way, they were War Boys through and through. This was their calling. This was their way.

Much as Slit wanted it, Brickton was first to leap up onto the slag rock ledge to the cheers and jeers of his peers. Brickton was a sight, a real idol of sorts, his face slashed open up the left side from a harpoon he’d met dealing with some long dead buzzards. He’d been a chummy chum when he and Rictus were just little joeys. Played together, fought together, scraped together. Only when Rictus got big and he went up to the top to serve with his dad, Immortan Joe, praise him, did Brickton have to fold back in with the rest of the War Boys. Wasn’t easy at first, but he took his place. Carved it out. He shoved past Gundar the Caretaker and walked the line, poking at War Pups like they was all carcasses left in the heat. Some he pried their mouths open to check their teeth. Some poked their bellies to see their reflexes. Some he pushed away, discarding without a second glance. He went from one end of the line to the other, then back.

Slit had three or four little pups all biting at his elbows, pulling his arms down outta their sockets. He hefted one and put her right up on his shoulders, clapped her skinny shins down his chest so she wouldn’t fall.

“How they lookin’?” he asked and she pressed her chin on the top of his head. “Anyone good?”

The War Pup smiled and tugged at Slit’s misshapen ear. She was one of the Mute, one of the girls who gave up her voice when she was anointed. It happened. Sometimes their voice came back. Hers had yet to find its way home through the sand.

“He better pick quick,” Slit said and gave the War Pup an affirming pat on her shin.

Brickton had a War Pup before. Plink. Plink was a ratchet-head, bit of a slag, too quick to cry. He did anything Brickton said. Anything. Went under the wheels during a run with aqua cola over on down to Bullet Town, may he ride eternal. Brickton was big. Plink was not. Didn’t catch him in time, not when they were riding hard to get some of Jarlo’s men off their tails. Brickton cut up every blasted buzzard what touched the war rig that day. Only cause he was big. Big Brickton.

Whoever he chose, he’d be taken care of, same as the others. Brickton pushed more than anything, but he radiated some fierce body heat when they all piled up to sleep, gangly limbs fetching onto gangly legs, heads resting on another War Boy’s stomach, their chest, what have you. There was a time or two they brawled to sleep near him, he ran so warm. Slit eyed his prowl, watched the way he carried his self, rounded his shoulders up to match the confident gait.

“Thin,” said Brickton, and pushed a War Pup. “Weak.” He flicked the ear of another. “Who here can make War? I see guts through your unpainted skin, but I see no fire. No forge. Who can make War?”

None of them answered, of course. Didn’t have the words, didn’t speak the lingo, didn’t know the creed. Except…. Except a small child, head glistening in the low torchlight. He had a tongue, it seemed. He wagged it and reached up, squinting around the line as he yipped back, “Me!”

“Ugh.” They all knew what he was gonna say, so he went and said it. “I won’t take a runt.”

“I’m not—”

“Runts drowns out in the sand faster than a drop of sweet Mother’s Milk. Mind your place, runt.”

“I can!” the War Pup shouted, his fists balled at his sides, but the War Pup shrank back when Brickton stomped down the line.

He was tiny. A real speck of dirt. Brickton watched him squirm and quail and gave him a regular thump and brawl, twice in the eyes for speaking up. The boy grabbed his face and crumbled. Some of the other War Boys bristled at that. No need to wail on a pup who done nothing but speak his mind. They grabbed their own pups like they was afraid Brickton was about to fly into the crown and start wailing on any War Pup he could get his hands on. The girl clamped there on Slit’s shoulders dug her fingers into his skin, but he held onto her tight. Stitches and all, Slit wouldn’t let her go. They had a bond. Link is a link is a link.

“You don’t hafta have a runt, then,” said the Caretaker, and shoved the closest War Pup. “Take this one. Has all his teeth.”

Brickton grabbed the pup’s arm and swung him up, looking him dead in the eye. Not a lot of wheels turning there in his skull. Not a lot of spark. The pup was in good hands, had a whole citadel full of War Boys to take his hand, when it was needed. Didn’t mean the pup were any brighter for it. Brickton nodded, once, and dropped the pup. Brickton would pick a simple one. That was a certain kinship between them. He wagged his hand to have him follow off to the holy chambers, where they might pray and powder, where the War Pup would be anointed with his first coat of that clean white paint.

“Come on then,” said Gundar the Caretaker, waving for the next War Boy to come up. “Let’s go, let’s go. Who’s next?”

“Me!”

Slit had shouted the same word, but it was the lancer Turncup the Twice who hopped up after Brickton. Turncup slithered up to the Caretaker and patted their cheek once before she went down the line. Slit wasn’t as mad that Turncup went after Brickton. They most loved Turncup the Twice after she took the thing what was killing her soft and carved off her breast in the middle of the night, extending her half-life. Some of the other war boys thought it might do them a deal to try the same, and there were several standing who had long scars slanted across their chests.

So Turncup took her War Pup and carried them off to the holy chambers, and then it was Logger and then Muf and then Blastgut. It was Fid the Rank and Handless Slinkmuck and even Torfel and Vicestop and Thumbchucker. Slit pushed up after Thumbchucker, nearly dropped his War Pup companion off his shoulders as the last of the litter was dwindling down.

“Hey!” he yelled, swarmed around his knees by a gaggle of pups. “Hey, you said I could pick this time, Caretaker! You said I was finally ready.”

“You are, Slit,” said Gundar the Caretaker over the top of their inked-up shoulder. “You come up here and pick already if your gonna wallow ‘bout it.”

“I will!”

Slit handed off the War Pup girl to someone close by, and he waddled through the mess at his feet like he was stomping through a sea of white chalk and bones. When he was up on the mantle, he got right up in Thumbchucker’s face, showing as many teeth as he could with the bandage wrapped tight round his noggin. “Keep this ones thumbs outta yer mouth, Thumbchucker.”

“Well don’t go carvin’ yers up,” Thumbchucker shot back, their foreheads pressed together as they shoved back and forth.

“We wear the scars, we bear the pain, so we ride eternal and are born of the flames forged in the halls of Valhalla.”

“Don’t quote scripture t’me. Sounds too ugly in your mouth.”

“Don’t talk so much. Just poison to our ears.”

“What ear? That mangled mess—”

The two were pulled apart as War Boys and War Pups surged onto the slate rock, worming their way into the confrontation. No need, no right to intervene, but it was a special day and there were pups there not yet seen the inside of the holy chambers, who needed strong War Boys to guide them. Gundar the Caretaker watched from their side of the slate rock, bored, hands fixed lazy like on their hips. They waited until Slit was in one corner and Thumbchucker in the other, and then they continued on with the ceremony.

One by one the line became less, became small, until the chain was a lonely little link with two black eyes, sobbing in the spotlight of a reflection coming off the ceiling. The hall was emptying too, trickling down to a few stragglers as everyone either went to pray in the holy chambers, flashing signs up above their heads, delighting in the spray on their face, shiny and chrome, or off back to their duties. Any of the wayward pups who clung around Slit’s feet drifted off. He sat there in the corner, right demoralized, as he slung one elbow over top his kneecaps. Gundar the Caretaker walked over, their boots sending little puffaroos of dust around them. Slit didn’t feel like looking anywhere but his own toes.

“I’ve the last one for ya,” said the Caretaker, nudging a pup closer to Slit. “He’s a right runt, but he’s yours to take.”

The pup had streaks running through the dirt there on his face. He scrubbed at his nose, red and wet, but he clenched both his fists and stood firm when Slit did look up.

“What’s this one then?” Slit asked, mumbling a little as the adrenaline’d worn off and he was keenly aware of them staples in his cheeks. “What’ll they call you, pup?”

“They’ll call me Nux,” the little pipsqueak said, thrusting out his bony chest in defiance. Right fury in him.

“Yeah?” Slit grabbed Nux’s wrist, turned it up and down as he inspected the pup, same as all the others did when they went down the line. He checked his teeth, his eyes. Good stock, even if he was a little twig. “You ready to honour him then, ’ey?”

Slit put his hands together in the eternal symbol of The Engine, the V8, and pumped it a few times over his head. Nux studied the delicate interlacings of Slit’s fingers, tilted his head as he put his own digits together, and was soon thrusting his own hands up over his head, returning the praise. Slit laughed, chuckled through the pain as it was, and he was up on his feet in a flash.

“That’s it then, that’s how it is!” Slit said, picking Nux up and slinging him up to his shoulders. “That’s how you do it! V8!”

“V8!” Nux chanted, laughing high and shrill as they started off for the holy chambers. There’d be a party there, then. All them War Boys high off chrome, dressing up their pups in paint, tossing wheels and grenades, chucking dead lances at imaginary targets on the wall. Would be blood and fire soon enough. Would tire themselves out. Would be a sight to see.

Gundar the Caretaker stood off in the sunlight there across the ledge, watching the last War Pup being carried off by that nut Slit. The pair of them would do wonders. Gundar the Caretaker felt it in their bones, better than brothers, better than blood. Was the kind that would echo through the history, they thought. For good or bad, they figured it’d be historic. They tongued their teeth, arms crossed, before they spit on the ledge as a final blessing of the War Pup ceremony. Then they were off back to the Organic Mechanic to see what newfangled mystery of the body the two might dissect from a Wastelander. Had a few sitting and waiting, tied up as blood bags. Could use a top up themselves before they started the carving. Felt good. Felt right.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the reading, much love to you all <3


End file.
